


Acquiesce And Conquer

by Mottled_System



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Abusive Snoke (Star Wars), Arguing, Armitage Hux Being An Asshole, Armitage Hux Has Issues, Armitage Hux Lives, Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Armitage Hux is a Jerk, Balance in the Force (Star Wars), Banter, Ben Solo Lives, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Bickering, Blushing, Bottom Kylo Ren, Creepy Snoke (Star Wars), Dead Snoke (Star Wars), Dominant Kylo Ren, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies to Lovers, Execution, First Order Politics (Star Wars), Force-Sensitive Reader, Inappropriate Erections, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Interrogation, Kylo Ren Angst, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren Redemption, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Manipulative Snoke (Star Wars), Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Master/Pet, Masturbation, Meditation, Overprotective, POV Second Person, Phasma Lives (Star Wars), Pining, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Kylo Ren, Protective Kylo Ren, Reader-Insert, Redeemed Ben Solo, Snoke Being a Dick (Star Wars), Soft Ben Solo, Submissive Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Teasing, The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars), The Force, The Force Is Basically Magic, The Light Side of the Force (Star Wars), Top Kylo Ren, Virgin Kylo Ren, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottled_System/pseuds/Mottled_System
Summary: You are the General of the Armies on your planet, one of the few not entirely under the thumb of the First Order... Until they invade, 'legally' execute your Queen, and sieze control of the government and army, rendering you jobless. For reasons unbeknownst to you, Kylo Ren offers you a job after seeing your rather *interesting* past, and against your best judgement, you accept, largely because you have little options other wise. Can you rise in rank and make a difference for the better, or have you sold your soul to a dark, galaxy-wide dictatorship?And why does Kylo Ren keep /looking at you like that/????
Relationships: Ben Solo & Reader, Ben Solo & You, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & You, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/You, Ben Solo/Reader, Ben Solo/You, Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Greenest Pasture

Your office is as uncomfortably bright as always, light shimmering off the black tile and silver metal as irritating as ever. Maintenance has, as usual, overcorrecting your complaints about the heat, and you might as well be laying in a bucket of dry ice. You suppose it’s better than too hot; at least now you can wear extra layers beneath your uniform.

Your intercom beeps then and you hear your assistant’s voice fill the room.

“General,” she says in a frightened voice. “There are- people here to see you.”

You frown at the intercom before pressing the button to speak. “People?”

“They- um- I’ve forgotten the word. Members of the First Order?”

“Stormtroopers?” You question, feeling a rush of shock. You hear a commotion outside of your door and stand instinctively.

“Sir- you can’t-  _ sir _ !”

The door opens- a feat that should be impossible unless both you and your assistant are pressing your respective buttons. You glance down at yours to ensure nothing is resting upon it, then look up to see a man dressed in all black, including a sleek black helmet, standing in your room. Your hand drifts slowly to the blaster concealed from his view.

“Don’t bother with that,” he says through his helmet, giving his voice a low, threatening, mechanical verve to it.

“Who are you?”

He tilts his head slightly to the side. “Kylo Ren. Have you heard of me?”

“No.”

Kylo Ren takes a few steps further into the room. “I see.”

“What have you done to her? How did you open the door?”

“Nothing, she’s fine- if a bit frightened.” He stops in front of your desk. “The same way I know your hand is on that blaster- the way I would be able to stop you from shooting me.”

You grit your teeth, and through them, you say “What do you want?”

“Sit,” says the man. You narrow your eyes and do not move. He tilts his head again. “I won’t repeat myself.”

Almost reluctantly- and with an heir of defiance- you lower yourself into your chair, picking up your blaster if only to reassure yourself that you are not entirely defenseless. He lounges in the seat in front of your desk, looking very relaxed, very unthreatened. “What. Do. You. Want?”

“I am here on behalf of the First Order,” he said.

“And why is that?”

“It seems as if your planet is not living up to its side of the arrangement.”

You scoff. “We most certainly are.”

“Are you,  _ General _ ?”

You stare at him for a long moment. “To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

“Ah,” he says almost mockingly. “From certainly to the best of your knowledge.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “I am a General, sir. I work in the military. I don’t see to the entire-” You interrupt yourself to sigh. “What are we not living up to, prey tell? I will take it up to the Queen, I’m sure we can work out a solution.”

“There is no need for that,” he says. “Your queen is-  _ predisposed _ , at the moment.”

You tense immediately, clenching your blaster and sneering at the masked man. “And what exactly does that mean,  _ sir _ ?”

Ren leans forward as well, his own demeanor growing angrier, more threatening. “What it  _ means _ , General, is that there is a fleet of stormtroopers marching on the capital as we speak, and unfortunately, your Queen will pay for her betrayal of the agreement.”

You stand and move for the door, but in a moment Kylo Ren is in front of you, his hand outstretched, and you are entirely frozen. It feels as if an unseen force has overcome you, holding every muscle and bone in your body taut and still. You sputter in anger as you stare at his cold, inhuman mask.

“Do you really think you could make a difference against so many stormtroopers, General?”

“I would die trying,” you spit. Whatever-  _ spell _ \- he has cast over you, it makes speaking strained and awkward.

“How  _ admiral _ ,” he mocks insincerely. After a moment, he releases you, but before you can recover he has unsheathed and ignited a lightsaber, pointing its red, angry blade at your throat. You scowl at him.

This is it. This is how you die. You weigh the option of going out swinging, but you fear he’ll only cast another spell upon you.

His dark, twisted laugh pulls you out of your thoughts. “I don’t mean to kill you- yet. You’re coming with me.”

“Am I?”

He takes a few steps closer, his lightsaber staying within inches of your neck. He looms above you threateningly. “Yes, General, you are.”

He urges you forward silently with the movement of his angry blade, walking you out of your office. You meet eyes with your assistant, who sits at her desk, two stormtroopers holding two guns to her head. “It’s alright, Aimee,” you assure her quickly, quietly. “Everything will be alright.”

“Silence,” Kylo Ren spits. “Drop the blaster.”

You do, allowing yourself to be led out the door. You see the fleet of stormtroopers just as they break the door of the palace open. Your own army is running forth from behind them.

Kylo Ren leads you forward, pointing to a rather frightening looking machine sitting beside a far off, large ship. “You see that weapon?”

“Yes.”

“You order your army to stop, or we will raze this city and slaughter them all, as well as you and the Queen.”

You stare at it, already pointing to the distant city behind you- not just the capitol buildings, or the businesses, but the schools and suburbs as well. You snatch your communicator angrily from your belt, moving quickly in between the stormtroopers and your own people, Kylo Ren never allowing you to get more than a foot away from his angry lightsaber. “Stand down,” you snarl with fury. “They have weapons that would kill Gods know how many civilians. The Queen would- she would not allow this.”

The communicator amplifies your voice and sends it through the soldier’s radios. Slowly, the oncoming horde stops.

“We’re just going to- let them kill her?”

“Silence, Commander. You send your troops to protect the civilians.”

“But-”

“Now!” You roar. Almost reluctantly, the crowd disperses. You turn to scowl at Kylo Ren, who has turned to stare at the palace. The stormtroopers have made their way inside, presumably to take on the Royal Guard. “You’re going to kill her?” You demand.

He looks over at you. “No one betrays the First Order.”

You let out a horrified, indignant scoff. “ _ Betrayal? _ What exactly did she not live up to to justify  _ execution _ ?”

Kylo Ren takes several steps towards you, and you lean away as he looms over you once more. “You ask far too many questions,  _ General _ . That might just become a justification.”

You sneer up at him, but do not speak. After several too-long minutes, the stormtroopers march out once more. A silver-plated one stands at the head, a group of stormtroopers swarming the Queen and her family.

“Please,” you whisper. “Do not harm the children- they have nothing to do with-”

“Silence,” snarls Kylo Ren. “Back to your office. You will start a broadcast.”

He led you forward, the stormtroopers stopping outside save for the dozen leading the Royal family along, including the silver one. When you return, there is a man clad in black awaiting you in your office, sitting in your chair. He gives a smarmy smile.

“Ah. There you all are,” he says getting to his feet. “I commend you, Captain Phasma. And Ren.”

“Thank you, General Hux,” says the silver stormtrooper- a woman- Captain Phasma.

“ _ General _ Hux?” you demand, approaching him. He tenses, eying you condescendingly.

“Indeed.”

You scowl at him for a long moment, memorizing his pale face. You will end this man- one day.

“The broadcast, General,” Kylo Ren says. You shoulder past Hux and sit in your seat again, beginning the broadcast. In less than five minutes, the entire planet is watching.

“Hello, all,” General Hux says before you can address them. You scowl at him as he walks into view. “As you may have ascertained- we have taken your Queen and her family into custody on behalf of the First Order, on direct orders from Supreme Leader Snoke himself. Now, I understand that you may feel threatened by our military’s presence on this planet, so I am sure you will be relieved to hear that the citizens of Alamthea are not under threat from the First Order. You are suggested to remain in your homes for the night. Things will be returned to- a semblance of normalcy in the morning.”

General Hux places a hand on your shoulder and you tense visibly. “Won’t they, General?”

You turn your gaze towards Kylo Ren with a glare, who nods brusquely, then look back at the camera. “I have been assured that they will- and I promise you that I will not allow any danger to come to any civilian. You have my word.”

General Hux gives another smarmy smile. “Alright- now, to the rather… Unpleasant business. If you would, General, please turn the camera around.”

With a scowl, you acquiesce. General Hux rounds the desk and begins to list off a number of ‘crimes’ the Queen has, apparently, committed against the First Order.

Then, callously, he commands Phasma to execute her, her husband, and her sons, leaving only her daughters-in-law and grandchildren. You wince, closing your eyes at the ensuing sorrow.

“Let this be a reminder to you- to Alamthea, and to the galaxy, that there will be no measures taken against the First Order.” Hux says, then motions for you to end the broadcast, and you do.

“I’m afraid you’re all going to have to come with us,” General Hux says. With sorrow, you and the remnants of the Royal family follow them towards their ship, the mothers clinging to their children, to each other. Once you arrive, Phasma and the stormtroopers head one way, Hux and the family head another, and Kylo Ren leads you yet another way.

Finally, you stop at what looks like an interrogation room. There is a rather intimidating ‘table’ standing before you- seemingly meant for strapping criminals to- but to your relief Ren leads you past that to a table with two chairs, and you both sit across from one another.

“Water?”

You stare at his inhuman face, bitter and tired. “Yes.”

He nods at a one-way mirror that shows your reflection, and a few minutes later, a stormtrooper scurries in with two bottles of water, placing one in front of each of you. You chug yours immediately, not bothering to care if they’re poisoning you; that likely would not be their first choice in method. He slowly takes a small drink of his own. “Don’t resist,” he says in a quiet voice. “It will only cause it to hurt.”

“What?” you ask tiredly.

But, without answering, he extends a hand again and you suddenly feel- a poking, prodding force at your skull. With a shudder, you acquiesce, and you feel-  _ him _ \- pour over your mind like a tsunami. You shiver as his presence whips through your mind like a tornado, utterly consuming every ounce of knowledge within you. By the time he finally removes himself, you realise, you’ve all but collapsed onto the table, feeling drained and ill and exhausted. A few tears have gathered in the corners of your eyes.

“Congratulations, General,” Kylo Ren says calmly. “You get to live.”

“Wonderful,” you grind out apathetically. Right now, at this moment, you would not mind dying. A silence settles over the two of you as you lay there, crumpled on the table, and he stares at you; you watch his reflection in the mirror. He is unencumbered by whatever magic he used to- do whatever he did. Read your mind, you assume. You don’t care enough to ask.

“Strange,” he says after a long time. “You seemed to be one of the stronger ones, and yet you’re so- affected.”

Reluctantly, you drag yourself into a sitting position to stare at him. “You have invaded my planet, slaughtered my Queen, my princes, and held my civilians hostage, and performed ungodly magic upon me multiple times. I would like to know who would not be affected by that.”

He says nothing, just stares at you. You cannot see his cheat rise and fall. He doesn’t move or shift. He looks and feels entirely inhuman, entirely mechanical. You wonder dryly if he’s a droid for a brief moment before he tilts his head to the side again.

“No,” he says, then slowly removes his helmet, revealing a human face beneath it. He sets it on the table, meeting your eyes once more.

Human, you suppose, is relative. His hair is long and dark and wavy, looking human enough. His skin is pale and dotted with birthmarks, freckles. His cheeks are chiseled, cheekbones high. His nose is large and hooked and crooked. His eyes are dark and unemotive. His lips are plump and pink. His face is long. You’re reminded of Frankenstein’s monster- an old, strange tale of a monster made of the most beautiful human features, none of which were meant to accompany the others. He didn’t look human, or relatable; he looked  _ human enough _ .

You see his lips quirk slightly. Clearly- between that and his removal of his mask- he can see your mind regardless of whether or not he- pours himself into you.

“I can hear your thoughts,” he says. “Sense your emotions. But I cannot see your memories, the things you know but aren’t thinking, without looking deeper.”

“What do you want from me?”

Kylo Ren looks down at the table for a moment noncommittally. “We’ll see.”

You both sit there for a long time until a knock sounds on the one-way mirror, and Kylo pulls on his mask once more before dismissing himself, leaving you alone in the silent, frightening room.

Several long minutes later, Kylo Ren returns, taking off his mask once more and setting it on the table, facing you. You stare into its unseeing eyes rather than look at him.

“Jarren will inherit the throne,” he says, referencing the eldest of the Queen’s grandchildren. “With his mother taking over as Queen Regent until he is old enough. They will, of course, be watched much more closely than the Queen had been.”

“The First Order will also be leaving soldiers of our own on Alamthea- Generals of our own. Meaning, of course, that you are regrettably out of a job.”

“Mmm,” you say, lip curled. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Kylo Ren continues. “You have two options. You go back to your planet a civilian and- do whatever there is to do on your shitty, dead-end world-”

“How  _ dare _ you-” you spit, but he continues unhindered.

“Or. You join the First Order, and possibly one day return to the rank of General.”

You laugh mirthlessly. “Is that so?”

“I saw the battles you’ve been in, the decisions you’ve made, the directions you’ve led your people towards. Nothing amazing enough to force you to join us, but enough to see that you might be of use to us.”

You look over at his face again, his real, nearly human eyes, with a dejected frown. “And what exactly makes you think I’d be willing to abandon my people, especially for the very people who  _ slaughtered _ my Queen?”

Kylo Ren gave a dark, almost cruel smile. “You have no family. You have no friends. You have no job, not anymore- you have no purpose, and you have very little opportunity for anything else that would be at all fulfilling to such a powerful, ambitious person such as yourself. So, you tell me- why exactly would you be willing to stay there?”

You say nothing, just stare at him silently. Several moments later, he sits back. “You don’t have to answer tonight. I will escort you to a room for the night, and I will find you in the morning.”

He leads you out of the interrogation room and to an elevator, leading you through several long, thin hallways, and eventually- years later, it seems, he stops in front of a door. He types seven digits onto a screen, blocking it with his body, before motioning you into the mechanical doors that  _ whoosh _ open, revealing a moderately sized bedroom with a desk, a television, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom.

“Goodnight, General.”

“Mmm.”

The door closes in between the two of you, and you grimly change into your underthings and slip into the small, albeit comfortable, bed.

And then- only then, in the private silence of your glorified prison cell- you feel yourself begin to weep.

What will become of Alamthea? How will the First Order-  _ desecrate _ your precious, beloved planet? What would change?

And what will become of you? Kylo Ren was, regrettably, correct. There was nothing for you there now but comfort, familiarity; within the year you would be unyieldingly dissatisfied with life.

But the alternative- joining the First Order- you could not imagine yourself here. You didn’t know what was here, how it would be any better. Would it not be more prudent to sell your house, purchase a ship, and find greener pastures?

But, of course, you knew they were everyone. Alamthea had been one of the final planets to maintain its own government, and now, it was just a cover, a pretty face, to hide the First Order’s control. There were no greener pastures anymore.

Tossing and turning and worrying, eventually, you manage to cry yourself to sleep.


	2. Cold

You awaken to an odd, foreign, mechanical noise and curl up, frowning, as your consciousness struggles to pierce the haziness of your tired mind. A wave of fear and the desire to _run_ follow it seconds later, and you bolt up in bed, gasping in air. Your eyes settle on the strange figure of Kylo Ren standing in front of you, helmet balancing between his hand and his hip. You gasp and pull the blanket over your chest, barely covered by the thin camisole you slept in, as the door closes behind him.

“Forgive me for waking you,” he says, sounding entirely unapologetic. “I had not realised you would sleep in.”

“I didn’t exactly have an alarm to set,” you mutter back at him, then give a great yawn. “What time is it?”

“1100,” he says. He points to the nightstand and you look over. “I had clothing delivered earlier this morning. I’ll wait outside- you’ll join me for lunch after you’re dressed.”

“Alright,” you say quietly. You’re not really in a position to dismiss him.

“9-1-0-8-4-7-6,” he says aloud as he types the code into the pad. “When you’re ready.”

You crawl out of your camisole and panties and slip into the new, fresh clothing provided for you; he must have sent for someone to go to your house. You slip into fresh underthings and one of the nicest dresses you own- not a gown, or anything. You bought it for business related dinners, cocktail parties, that sort of thing. You step in to freshen up in the restroom before joining Kylo Ren outside of the room. Silently, he leads you down the hallway and up three sets of stairs, then down a hallway almost identical to the one you’d just left. Eventually, he approaches another room with another pad and types in a presumably different seven number code, then leads you in.

This room is much nicer, and much larger, than your own- it is it’s own apartment, really, with a sitting room leading to a dining room, a kitchen beyond it, and at least three more rooms with closed doors. Everything is pristine and new, save for the table which is set for two, several unfamiliar dishes sitting in the middle. He walks forward and pulls your chair out of its place for you, and you reluctantly sink into it, muttering an insincere thanks. He sits across from you.

“Why you?” You ask before he can speak. His eyes meet yours as he sets his helmet on the seat beside him.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know who you are, Kylo Ren, or what you do, but I get the distinct feeling that you are, in general, not a very- personable man.”

Kylo gets a small smirk as he meets your eye, a glimmer in his eye that is not, but does in fact resemble, a threat. “Well, you’ve got me there.”

“So, why you? Why- any of this? I don’t understand what the First Order could possibly want from me, or why they would ask for me to _accept_ a position if they truly do, or why they’re sending what I can only assume to be a magician-assassin for liaison.” You say. Kylo says nothing, just fills your plate up with a little bit of each dish and then his own. You grind your teeth together for a moment, trying to keep your composure. “I do not like secrecy, or lies, deceit. You tell me or I will leave.”

He meets your eye again after a moment, looking almost annoyed. “You can’t leave, Y/N. You certainly must’ve figured that by now.”

“Then why start with that pretense? Especially if you’re going to lock me in a room all night and expect me not to be suspicious? Lies are pointless if you do nothing to conceal them.”

Kylo looks at his plate with disinterest. “I’m working on orders from Supreme Leader Snoke,” he says.

“What do you want from me, Kylo Ren? I promise you that you will have more success getting it from me if you are upfront.”

He looks at you as if he’s appraising you, as if he’s trying to determine it that’s true. Apparently, he decides that it is. “Not only are you a talented general, soldier, and political adviser- you are Force-sensitive. Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“The Force,” he says, picking up a fork to poke at some white, mushy substance. “Is an energy field. _Ungodly magic_ , apparently, to you.”

You tense, feeling offended. “I am no- blasphemous magician, sir. I don’t know- or care- what you think you know-”

“Shut up and listen,” Kylo says, looking at you. You tense and scowl. “You want the truth? Fine. Shut up and listen.” When he says nothing more, you angrily motion for him to continue. “It is created by and accessible to all living things, of course, but some people- people like me, and to a lesser extent, people like you- are… Innately attuned to it. It’s why you’re such a good pilot, for instance, it’s why you’re such a good fighter, why you’re the best shot Alamthea has ever seen.”

You roll your eyes. “How convenient.”

“Excuse me?” His eyes turn lethal.

“You take every single factor that goes into success- talent, luck, timing, coincidence, practice, all of it- and you just- you call it _magic_? Gods forbid I’m a wonderful shot- it’s all just magic, apparently-”

He clenches his fist again, and suddenly, you are frozen once more, this time entirely incapable of speaking or breathing. His eyes are alight with a slighted fury and a scantily contained rage. “Luck, talent, coincidence, good timing, intuition- it _is_ the Force. The Force creates it for you. And it takes _practice_ to utilise it.”

Finally, he releases you, and you gasp in a breath. “If you’re so fucking magical,” you snap. “What the hell does Snoke need me for?”

“ _Supreme Leader_ ,” Kylo corrects, snarling as if you’d cursed the man. “You do not question him, and neither do I.”

You roll your eyes and look away. “What now, then? What now?”

“Now, you begin your training,” he says.

“Training with magic,” you say dubiously.

His eyes glimmer with that lethal intent. “With _the Force_.”

“With who? With _you_?”

“Mostly, yes,” he says, finally taking a bite. “After you advance, you will answer directly to Supreme Leader Snoke.”

You reluctantly take a bite as well, chewing it slowly. It is strange and unfamiliar, but not wholly unpleasant. “Fine.”

“Good,” he said.

The two of you finish eating in silence.

“Will I be allowed to bring my belongings?” You ask as he stands.

He points to the door closest to the front door. “They’re already in there.”

“Can I at least- have the day, or a few hours? To… Say goodbye, take it all in?”

He looks at you impassively. “We left Alamthea several hours ago.”

Your heart seizes and you look away, careful to keep your face controlled. “Oh.”

“Apologies.” His voice is insincere, dismissive. You stare blankly at the empty plate before you as the two of you reside in the hostile silence for a prolonged moment. “You will begin your training tomorrow.”

“Mmm.”

And, with that, Kylo Ren departs. You waver as the mechanical door closes behind him, leaving you entirely alone in this unfamiliar place.

Eventually, you gather the disposed of dishes and load the dishwasher, peruse the cabinets and closets to begin to familiarize yourself with this place, moving things around at your discretion. Then, you make your way into the master bedroom and begin to unpack your belongings.

Finally, as if it had been placed purposefully for you to find it last, you happen upon the old, handcrafted chest that had been left to you by your father. You had not seen it- had not thought of it- in many, many years. Gently, you close your eyes and focus upon the lock, willing it to open.

Once, you had believed your father was an angel.

Then, as a young child, you’d come to believe it was all psychological; he had told you when you were young that you would have to calm yourself and focus to open the truck, so that was simply what you had always done.

You hadn’t opened the chest in so long that you hadn’t stopped to consider it any further, hadn’t thought to open it without calming yourself, without focusing.

And, now- after the hellish magic of Kylo Ren- it is hard not to believe in it, as if magic itself lives within you and prevents you from doubting it.

There are five lightsabers inside. You had not seen them in a decade.

You lift one- the one you had touched most recently, the one you had made most recently. Once, it had been purple. Then, it had been red. And, now, it was white. You admire the hilt of it silently, turning it in your hand. Your mother had taught you how to forge it. It was beautiful and intricate, carved and marked carefully, skillfully. You ignite it and eye the serene blade for a quiet moment before deactivating it and setting it down.

You lift another, your mother’s. Her hilt is complex and threatening, jagged and angrily, but it fits easily and comfortably in your hand. You ignite it and gaze at the blood red light, as angry as Kylo Ren’s and yet not spitting, not fiery. You deactivate it and set it down.

You lift the third one, the other one you had made. The hilt was simple; you had not been practiced, not been skilled. You ignite it and look at the blade, a pale purple, before deactivating it and setting it beside the others.

You lift the next one, the one least familiar to you, the one least dear to you. It had been your uncle’s- your father’s best friend, though not a blood brother- and he had died before you had been born. Your father had said he’d have wanted you to have it. You ignite it and look at its golden glow before adding it to the growing pile.

Finally, you lift your father’s lightsaber. It had a simple hilt, but a beautiful one- sleek, but not strange. You ignite it and stare at the blue light, almost forlorn. Then, you place it back into the trunk and replace the others as well.

You knew your father had once been a Jedi, long ago, but you did not really understand what that meant. You had heard many fantastical stories about the Jedi- fairy tales, really- but had disregarded them. Kylo Ren’s magic replayed in your mind.

Your mother had been the daughter of a _Sith_ , which was not a word you recognized. She had never done anything magical or strange- you had never seen her using the Force, as Kylo Ren had called it. But she had been magnificent with a lightsaber, and she had taught you to wield one.

You’d lived with your mother, your father off in the Republic, and then a founder of the Resistance. Jedi weren’t allowed to have families, spouses or children, and he was not fond of your mother. You had not seen him often, to say the least. She had taught you to fight with a lightsaber, to make them, and your father had not been happy about it, but he had not yelled at you for it, only given you his brother’s, and left you his own.

He’d died when you were nine, died fighting for the Resistance. Your mother had said it served him right.

Then, your mother died when you were twelve. You had had no one, nothing. You had been truly alone. You took your lightsaber- just _one_ , for some reason- and you practiced, channeling your mother, feeling her; you moved as if you were made to, hurting and hateful and angry and sorrowful.

You had felt every horrible emotion, and it was as if you were dying, as if you were being torn asunder.

And then the purple blade had turned as red as blood in your hands, and you’d screamed into the air, and you had collapsed, and you had wept there, alone and angry.

You hadn’t touched it again for several months. It was the visual representation of your pain, of your loneliness- and, when you tried to open the trunk again, it seemed as if you _couldn’t_ , as if the chest simply would not open. You had joined the military then, as the First Order threatened to invade your planet. You had fought and nearly died; you had watched friends die; you had bled and cried and ached for your planet. You came home three years later- not happy, not well, but not angry. You were no longer a scared, desperate child yearning for her lost parents. You were hardened and calloused and chilled by war.

You had come home calm, and the chest had opened for you once more.

And, again, you had practiced. You had heard your red lightsaber sizzle in the rain, and your body had moved in a way halfway between a dance and an attack, and you had felt alive again for the first time in years. You had felt your mother, your father, as if they were beside you, a part of you, living inside of your soul.

And it had healed you, and seemingly, your lightsaber as well; its red blade had turned white.

You had returned it to its chest. You had gone back to the war- two years, then back for a few months, and three years, and back for a year. You had risen within its ranks, and you had forgotten about your chest, about your lightsabers.

And, now- at twenty four- you were here. In a First Order ship, far from your small, beloved planet, as alone as ever.

You leave the chest open and place it atop your dresser, fully visible. You’re about to head into the kitchen to make yourself dinner when a short knock sounds on your bedroom door and Kylo Ren opens it. You look at him and stand tall, proud, unwavering.

“Why are you here?”

He looks at you from behind his mask. He is perhaps a half foot taller than you. “I felt you,” he says. “Through the Force.” He looks over at your chest for a moment before moving closer. You tense but move back slightly, allowing him to peer inside. “Ah. I was wondering when you would find them.”

“You saw them,” you say quietly, your heart sinking. “When you- read my mind.”

“I saw everything.”

Silence settled over you both for a moment before you found the words to speak. “The Jedi- the Sith. They were magical, too- they used the Force, didn’t they?”

“Yes, they did.”

You consider the spitting red blade of his lightsaber for a moment. “Are you a Sith?”

“No. Why don't you join me for dinner?”

You grit your teeth before nodding briefly, and follow him out of your apartment. He leads you down the hallway, stopping at the end, and typing in a pass code before leading you inside.

His apartment much resembles your own, and is hardly any more lived in. The furniture is nicer, newer, sleeker, darker. It feels cold and unwelcoming. The table is set, some sort of bird sitting roasted as the main course with several strange side dishes sitting beside it. Kylo pulls your seat out again, and you sit across from one another again.

Everything is positioned the same. You sit in the same positions. Nothing has changed but the colors around you, and it feels strange. He removes his helmet and sets it beside him again. He carves the bird.

“If you’re not a Sith, then what are you?”

“I’m the Master of the Knights of Ren.”

“Which is…?”

“Dark Side users.”

“Who do what?”

Kylo freezes to look at you with an intense, sinister gaze. “Whatever I tell them to,” he says nonchalantly. “‘The Ren doesn't stop to worry about what it's burning or the right or wrong of it, or the goals it might achieve. The Ren just is. It lives, and it consumes, and it doesn't apologize. It is its nature and nothing else.’”

“Mmm.”

Kylo finishes serving both you and himself and begins to cut into his own plate. “Eat. You hardly touched your food at lunch.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Kylo scowls at you as you reluctantly take a bite of the bird. It tastes- _fine_. “You will have your own order, eventually.”

“Will I?”

“You are different from the Knights. You’ve always been different from the Sith, from the Jedi, from everyone. That’s why you’re here. I don’t need any more Knights. You will serve a different purpose.”

“And what is that?”

Kylo says nothing as he takes a bite of his food, not looking at you. You scowl at your own plate, and for the rest of your meal, you eat in silence.

“If you weren’t going to talk to me, then why did you bring me here?” You demand as he gathers half of the dishes and carries them to the sink. When he doesn’t answer, you grab the rest and walk over to him. “Hello? Have you gone deaf?”

“Because I wanted to,” Kylo mutters, sounding annoyed. “For some reason.”

You clench your jaw and step away as he leaves the dishes discarded in the sink. “You have a _dishwasher_ ,” you say.

“I also have a cleaning service,” he says as he makes his way to the couch and sits, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

You say nothing before sitting on the armchair, a safe distance away from him. After a moment, he flicks his wrist and the holopad activates. Gentle music begins to play in the room- not calming, nor peaceful, but dark and jarring and, despite its slow speed, very energetic. The holo projected above it shows what must be the orchestra performing it. Then, he flicks his wrist again, and the lights dim. You begin to speak again when he interrupts you. “Stop talking. I have a headache.”

“Perhaps, then, I should go,” you say through gritted teeth.

“No.”

You sigh and shift in your seat, agitated and frustrated and tired. You relax against the chair, laying your head on the arm of the chair, kicking your shoes off, and tucking your feet beneath you.

You must fall asleep, because hours later, you awaken, alone and in the dark. You sit up suddenly, blinking at the empty room before you. It takes several moments to recover from your drowsiness. You frown at the exit; the door is closed, and you do not know the pass code. Awkwardly, you knock on the door to Kylo’s bedroom, eliciting no answer. You push the door open to reveal him laying face down on his bed, eyes closed, breath even.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” you ask, but he does not respond. You shift from one foot to the next, growing agitated; you don’t know what to do. You wish you could blast him awake with magic- with the Force- but you feel very strongly as if that would be a bad idea. With a heavy, reluctant sigh, you glance at the open door leading to the spare bedroom. You shuffle over to it and close the door behind you, laying down on the cold, soft bed within it.


	3. The Light

You awaken to the sound of something being cooked, the smells of an unfamiliar meal. You breathe in and crinkle your nose, sitting up and adjusting to consciousness. When you’re ready, you stand and pull on your clothing from the day before, step into the bathroom to freshen up.

You should have left and taken a shower last night. You don’t look disgusting- but you certainly feel it. Hugging yourself, you make your way out of the spare bedroom in Kylo Ren’s chambers. He’s standing at the stove in pajama bottoms and nothing else, his hair a mess, looking very, very tired.

He blinks and frowns at you as if he had not known you were here. You hug yourself tighter. “I didn’t know the passcode to leave,” you mutter.

“4-0-0-9-8-5-6,” he says, looking down at the food.

You look at him for a long moment. He’s muscular and broad; he’s tired; he looks… Different. More human. You turn away, not wanting to dwell here, to be around his strange presence any longer than necessary.

And you need to shower.

You make your way to your own room, into your bathroom. It is large and swanky and sleek. You enter the large, spacious shower equipped with an unnecessary amount of spouts and remain for a rather long time. You nick yourself shaving, of course- you curse and swipe the blood away. Eventually, you wander out and see to your face. You walk out into your bedroom thoughtlessly only to jump and gasp at the sight of none other than Kylo Ren sitting in an armchair in the corner of your bedroom, perusing through your lightsabers as if they were his.

You wear a towel around your body and another holding your hair. You lean back, tugging the towel to make sure you’re entirely covered, as he glances nonchalantly up at you, his eyes taking in your entire body before he returns to the lightsabers.

Silently, you seethe for a moment before angrily ripping open your dresser.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

“Yes, in fact,  _ you _ are,” you snarl.

“I beg your pardon?” He is being overly formal. His voice holds a mocking lilt.

“I’m hardly dressed, and you just- you’re in my bedroom. You’re in my things.”

“Just thought I’d repay the favor,” he mumbles under his breath, turning your white lightsaber in his hands, studying the hilt.

You turn crimson. “You left me sleeping in an armchair! I  _ tried _ to leave, and you wouldn’t let me.”

“Mmm.”

You gather the clothing you’ll wear and look at him, enraged. Then, you gently slip the towel off of your head to fling it at his face as hard as you can- you slip into the bathroom, closing and locking the door, before he can do much more than snarl in anger.

You ready yourself, slowly calming down. When you’re good and prepared, you venture out again to see him still in the armchair, the towel tossed haphazardly into your hamper. He scowls at you but does not speak.

“I could have been  _ naked _ ,” you snarl, plopping onto your bed- you have nowhere to go, nothing to do. You don’t know where anything is to just wander off- you couldn’t make your back. “You certainly heard me showering.”

“You have nothing I haven’t seen before, General.” His voice is dismissive, bored.

“Oh- I have  _ plenty _ ,” you snap, and then flush, realizing what you’ve said. He glances up at you, halfway between amused and taunting. You straighten with pride, pretending you aren’t crimson. You do have plenty, and he is not entitled to see it. Not permitted.

“Good to know,” he mutters, looking back down, smirking.

You hate him. You want to slap him. You crack your neck and lay down, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, you stop blushing. His presence- once you recover- is not offensive. You close your eyes and listen to sounds of his clothing as he moves, ever inspecting the lightsabers.

“You sleep quite a bit, General,” he says after a long period of silence. You open your eyes just as he returns the lightsabers, sets them down.

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

He stands and stretches for a moment before sitting on the bed, his thigh touching your shin- as if he’d shocked you, you snatch your legs away and sit up.

He’s on your bed. You don’t like that one bit. You are suddenly flustered and defensive once more.

“It’s almost time for lunch,” he says. “And I doubt you ate breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Hmph,” he says, dissatisfied, studying you. You grow self-conscious- does he think you don’t eat? Does he think you’re too big for how little you eat? Does he think you’re too small?

You hate men. You hate when they look at you. Maybe it was the sort of men that your mother had brought around- maybe it was the men you’d met in the army. You feel self-conscious and slighted.

You’re not usually so… Easily flustered. You tiredly rub your eyes with your fingers.

A lot had happened the past few days. You’re adjusting.

“Relax,” he says softly, as if he is trying to be gentle, reassuring. You frown at him in response, and his jaw clenches- and, just like that, you’re both annoyed at one another again. “We’re going to meditate, and then we are going to eat. You’re not too big or too small- I don’t care what you look like. You need to eat and stay healthy to fight.”

You sneer at him, silent. He seems to grow ever more agitated with each passing moment. He sits more wholly on the bed, legs crossed, motioning for you to follow suit; reluctantly, you do, trying to relax your shoulders. He seems to fade away in moments, eyes closing, body growing at once slack and solid.

You try to follow suit, but your body seems to resist. Your mind allows itself to grow thoughtless, focusing only on the sound of his breathing, the sound of the air conditioning, the feel of his aura beside your own.

“Try to feel the Force,” he says softly, his voice gentle and almost blissful. “Like with the chest- but don’t try to do anything with it. Feel it and let it take you.”

You do as he says, and before long, you slowly begin to feel it creep up on you-

And then, it gently engulfs you. The world feels different now- you are the world, and the world is you. It’s as if the world is a painting- before, it had been acrylic, with solid, beautiful, separate colors, and now, it was watercolor, each color beautiful and flowing, melting into all the rest. You feel as tied to Kylo as you do to everything else.

The bed is dull and quiet, soft and yielding- a pale, pretty yellow. You had been a bright and deep emerald green. Kylo had been a brilliant sienna orange. You flow into each other- emerald to jade to chartreuse to amber to sienna. The walls are silent and grey, staunch and simple. You feel the life and the people all around you in many miles in all directions. You are as connected to them as you are to Kylo- but, with him, the connection is mutual.

“Good,” he says softly. “Focus on me.”

You both turn your attention towards the other in unison, and you are suddenly overwhelmed by him- you merge together and shudder at the feeling of it. It’s like before- when he had read your mind- where he is wholly and unapologetically a part of you, but whereas it had been dark and forceful, draining and sinister, it was now soft and energizing, peaceful, comforting. You feel your mouth slowly drift open as you reel from the strangeness of it.

At once, you both reach your hands out and your palms touch each other in mid-air. Silently, you both move your arms, not seeing the other and not talking, not thinking, but somehow mimicking each other as if slowly growing in sync. 

He’s tired, but the meditation is a comfort, a reprise. He’s hungry- you can feel it slowly grow within him- but the hunger is not a pain, not an ache, within the Force.

You’re thirsty. You long for water, but it’s a gentle desire. Your back is sore, in pain, but it’s less a feeling, a sensation, and more just something that you know.

You feel him reach out- not with his hands this time- and wash over you. It’s as if his energy rolls over your muscles, soothing them, gently removing the kinks. “Try that with your cut,” he says softly.

You focus on the small nick you’d given yourself shaving, and experimentally, you try to discover how to soothe it, to heal it. A massage would help sore muscles; Kylo had rolled himself over you. You imagine yourself moving into your cells, expedite the healing process, will them to multiply… And they do. You don’t instantly close it, but you can feel it do well, feel impossibly quicker.

He breaks his meditation at the same time as you do. You inhale slowly, deeply, as your eyes open. You feel revitalized, calm, as the colors snap back into their places. You quickly reveal your leg- the nick is almost closed. You touch it in awe.

“That’s enough for now,” Kylo says, his voice still quiet but more himself. “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“That was… Beautiful.”

“That was the Light,” he says.

“The Light is beautiful.”

He says nothing for a long moment. “We’ll move onto the Dark tomorrow, or the day after. You might be too tired tomorrow… But you’re stronger than I had thought, so perhaps not.”

You frown, still gently stroking your leg. “The Dark was what you did to me,”

“You’ve only felt it one way. It’s much different than that when it isn’t directed towards you.”

You’re reluctant. You tell yourself that you would never do anything like that…

But you were a soldier. You had done things before- many things- whose memories wounded you. And you know that you would do quite a bit for the right cause.

Still. It is good- imperative- to always be reluctant to do bad things. Always.

“Yes, it is,” Kylo Ren agrees silently. You look up at him, into his cloudy eyes, and you know that he has done many things as well. He has memories that wound him. “I don’t use the Light. Not much. But… When you use the Dark side, you have to know when to stop. Because if you don’t, it will take you, and it will change you. Everything changes you, a little, and that’s unavoidable, especially with the Dark side.”

You continue to look at him silently, taking in his words, his far-away gaze. “I see.”

“You asked if I was a Sith-  _ no _ . They revel in the change. They focus on it, give into it, use it. I do not.” He takes your pant leg and gently pulls it down over your skin, hiding your half-healed wound. “I do what I have to do, no more and no less. I am not sorry for the things that I do, but I take no comfort in them.” When he has finished speaking, he stands. He glances over his shoulder at you. “Will you join me for lunch?”

“Yes,” you say softly and stand, follow him to his apartment down the hall.

You help him this time as he cooks. Your meditation seems to have connected you somehow- whether temporarily or permanently, you don’t know. He directs you wordlessly. It isn’t long before you are sitting at his table once again, this time with food that isn’t entirely unappealing to you.

“You said you don’t use the Light,” you say softly. “Why not?”

He takes a moment, thinking, as he takes a bite. He doesn’t speak until he has swallowed. “Everything you do changes you. Everything affects everyone uniquely. The Light… Keeps me from doing what I need to do. It makes me weak, soft.”

You want to think that you can’t imagine Kylo Ren as weak, as soft. But somehow- now- you can. Whether it is his calm and gentle disposition or the joint meditation giving you more insight, you don’t know. You are plagued by an image of him, desperate and sad, alone and in need, crippled by the Light. You cannot seem to remove it from your head as you eat silently.

Everything is subtly different now.  _ Everything changes you _ . Colors are brighter, scents sweeter, tastes more flavourful. The air seems to sing against your skin. You can feel the Force, if faintly, all around you. You are not as connected to it as you had been, and yet, you feel it now, in a way you never had before. “Why is this so different from opening the chest?”

“Because,” Kylo says. “You didn’t use the Force this time. It used you.”

You sit on that for a moment as you finish eating- you ate it all. Your appetite had been steadily decreasing since you were young. It was a rare occasion that you finished a full plate. Kylo stands and grabs it, takes it and his own to the sink. You watch him as he rinses them briefly before setting them down with what were, presumably, the dishes he’d used this morning. “Thank you.”

“Mhm.” He looks at you for a moment. “I have work to do. You’re free to do whatever you’d like.”

Suddenly- strangely- the thought of being alone is daunting, but you nod your head silently. He studies you for a moment. “Should I send someone to come and show you around?”

The thought of meeting a stranger, making niceties, is harrowing. You shake your head. “I’ll just be in my room.”

“Alright.”

The two of you leave together and head in separate directions. You feel each steady footprint as if each one is strange and momentous. Still riding the high from meditation, you have to focus on something, to feel and experience it- and yet, you are bored and frightened, increasingly so with each passing moment.

You want to dive back into the Force and fade away, but you feel as if that would only make you feel worse in the long run. You glance up and see the silver stormtrooper- Captain Phasma. It could be anyone, of course- but you feel very strongly as if it is her. “Excuse me,” you say without consideration.

She glances at you. “Yes?”

“Is there- a gymnasium, by chance?” A military ship ought to have one, you suppose. She relays the location and you stop into your bedroom to change into something a bit more appropriate for working out, then head out to the gym.

Like everything on the ship, it is large and sleek and stylish. You stretch, warm up, workout, cool down. You take a break for a snack and then swim laps, head to the sauna, end up in a hot tub. It must be dinner time by now.

You feel better, tired and restored to normal. You still feel more attuned to everything, but less- neurotically so.

You could get used to living on a ship with amenities like this, you think, as you head back to your room. You’d showered briefly at the gym, but you think you’d like a bath.

You could stop by Kylo Ren’s room to see if you can join him for dinner. You frown and tense as the thought strikes you as you gather clothing to change into after your bath. Why on earth would you do that? You finally get a nice moment to yourself after being  _ abducted _ and you’re stuck longing for your captor? You dismiss the thought and make your way to the bath.

It is truly blissful, and you hardly think of Kylo Ren at all.


	4. His Responsibility

Much to his own frustration, he is gone for five days. Supreme Leader said that it was fine to leave you here, that you couldn’t be overwhelmed, that you needed to feel at home to the First Order, or at least to this ship, if they were to properly utilise you. You fought best when you fought with passion.

He makes sure to search for you before he enters his room, finding you absent- in moments, he finds you in your own, altogether too far from his.

He should have just made you take his spare room. You’d have been with him always then; he could always keep an eye on you. He enters his room and sighs audibly, rolling his shoulders, then collapses ungracefully onto the settee.

His room would feel like you by now. He frowns at that. He’s never liked the way people’s auras leave traces on his things, his surroundings. Why would he want you to live here, in his chambers? Your aura is potent and pure. It would have all but replaced his own by now.

Why does he have to restrain himself from marching right on down to you and making you move in?

He’s always been a bit too controlling, even as a kid. You’re his apprentice now, you’re his responsibility. Of course he wants to micromanage you. It had taken him years to convince himself he could stop doing his own dishes because the maids would come, anyway, and clean every already-clean surface.

He feels you leave your room. He hadn’t realized he’d been tracking you as you moved from the living area to your bedroom, your bedroom to the bathroom, the bathroom to the hallway. You’re probably on your way to the gym, or the lounge- he had had Phasma keep him updated on you, and you seemed to spend much of your time there.

You stop outside of his door and knock. It’s a gentle, tentative sound. He all but flings himself onto his feet to open the door.

You look up at him. Your eyes are gentle and curious. You seem at least mostly recovered from the night he had met you. “You know,” you say, your voice as snarky as ever. “When you said you had to work, I was imagining more of, you know, stopping by the office, filing some paperwork- maybe an all-nighter.”

He steps aside and you slink past him. “That’s not really my style.”

“Really? You seem like a desk guy to me.” You walk inside and look around. He can feel you grow slightly uncomfortable as the airlock door closes. You turn and look at him again. “I don’t know why I came over here,” you admit softly,  _ shyly _ .

He has the sudden and inexplicable urge to punch a wall. “Stay,” he says quickly, harsher than he’d have liked.

“Okay,” you say, and glance around again, then sink onto the couch. “I was going to go for a swim, maybe a drink.”

He doesn’t go out there, with all the people, very often. He would be very strange and silent if he did. “Stay.”

“Okay,” you repeat. He sits next to you- as close as he dares, but not touching you- and turns the holos on, dimming the lights. It’s late. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

You lean against the back of the sofa slowly, your head tilting to the side. You’re interested in whatever he had put on. He studies your form, your profile. He feels like an idiot- he just wants to keep barking the word ‘stay’ at you. He clenches his jaw and scowls at the holo, trying to force himself to pay attention. You seem to notice how tense he is; he’s desperate to read your thoughts, but they fly through your head wordlessly too quickly for him to follow without plucking them out and analyzing them.

He’s so on edge. The mission Supreme Leader had given him had been difficult, arduous. He just wants to lay down and pass out, but he knows he couldn’t sleep yet, so he sits there and stares at the holo, trying not to twitch and fidget.

The two of you stay there until the end of the program, and then you yawn quietly, the noise soft and mouse-like.

Again, he has the urge to punch a wall. His chest feels strange.

Fuck.

This is what it had felt like when he’d first arrived here, when he’d had his pick of concubines and they had all seemed very interested in him. Growing up as a Jedi, the attention had not been something he had been used to, to say the least. He’d been angry and flustered when he hadn’t understood his-  _ urges _ .

But, now, at thirty- as a powerful figure in the First Order surrounded by beautiful, stunning concubines- he was a far cry from the sexually repressed virgin he had been when he had first arrived here. His urges never made him angry, never made him lash out.

It isn’t that- it can’t be. Of course- he certainly isn’t  _ not _ attracted to you; look at you- but that isn’t what’s driving this strange, pent-up frustration.

You’re his responsibility. You’re strange and witty and snarky and smart, powerful and ambitious, desperate to be someone and do something. You’re his responsibility, and he had had to leave you unsupervised, so he had been worrying about you constantly, and it was strange.

That was it. It had to be. The frustration of being a mentor for the first time and being unsure how. That’s it. That’s the only thing it can be.

His heart is racing. His mind eludes him, refuses to confirm or deny his theory. Is he  _ sweating? _

Maybe he isn’t such a far cry from the stupid little virgin he once was.

You look over at him and blink suddenly, then frown. You look worried; you place a hand gently on his forehead. “You’re warm,” you say. “Do you feel alright?”

No. Not at all. “I feel fine.”

“Maybe you should go lay down… I’ll get you some water.”

“Okay.” Dumbly, he stands. When was the last time he felt  _ dumb _ ? He turns and walks to the bedroom; as he hears you pouring him a glass of water, he quickly undresses and tugs on a pair of pajama pants. He’s just clambering into bed when you walk in.

“Have  _ you _ eaten?” You ask as you walk closer, handing him the glass. He takes a slow drink of it.

“Yes,” he says and sets the glass on his nightstand.

“Does your stomach hurt? Do you feel sick?”

He focuses on his stomach. “No.”

“Lay down,” you coo, patting his pillow gently and pulling the cover over him. He looks over at you.

“I feel fine,” he says. He knows he should be annoyed at your babying. He wonders what the hell’s gotten into him to just go along with it.  _ I’m tired _ , he thinks. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in nearly a week. You stroke his hair back and his jaw tenses. He wants to  _ punch a fucking wall _ . Something sturdy that wouldn’t break easily- something that would hurt. Just punch it over and over again. He wants to snap at you, to mock you for babying, but the words don’t form. He just lays there and scowls while you fret above him.

“I made soup yesterday,” you say gently. “Do you want soup?”

Soup sounds pretty fucking good. After a moment, he nods, and you scurry away.

He sits up and pushes his hair back. His skin feels hot against his hand. He stands and, still scowling, walks to the bathroom. His face is red and he looks  _ mean _ , angry, out of it. He looks sick. He focuses on his body- all of it and once and then limb by limb- but he feels fine. His heartbeat steadily slows as he looks at his own face in the mirror, calming down. He splashes his face with cold water once, twice, three times. He breathes in and then out.

He’s better. Maybe you’re the problem.

You come back shortly thereafter, holding two thermoses. You hand him one and he breathes in the smell- it smells delicious. He doesn’t make soup, hasn’t had it in a long time. He blows on it, uses the Force to cool it, then takes a swig of it.

It is delicious. “Thanks,” he grunts, feeling more himself. He brushes past you into the bedroom, sits on the bed, and you follow, doing the same. You take a small sip of your own thermos.

“You look a bit better,” you say after he’s downed about half of it.

“I’m fine,” he says. His voice is short and dismissive. Good.

“That’s good,” you say and eye him silently. You clutch the thermos in both hands, keep it close to your chest. You look small and soft- at least in comparison to him.

He wants to punch a wall, but at least he doesn’t feel hot anymore; at least his heart remains calm.

He eyes you. You looked out of place in your uniform when he had first met you- your hair had been in a tight bun, your face angry and tired and strained. Then, the next day, you had looked strangely uppity in that dress, but it had been the least ugly one you owned. Your hair had been better down, and your face had been more expressive. Then, you’d chosen your own outfit, and you’d looked professional yet comfortable, the outfit not flattering nor offensive.

You look best today. You wear comfortable active wear and your hair is loose and clean. Your face is gentler, kinder. Your eyes are brighter.

You’re attractive. Beautiful, pretty, cute- whatever. You look nice. He truly notices it for the third time- the first had been when you’d scurried out of his guest bedroom, the second when you’d flushed and snapped at him;  _ Oh, I have plenty. _

He’s sure you do.

Fuck. Okay, now he’s a little horny. It usually doesn’t happen so suddenly,  _ especially _ now that he’s older. He studies your face as you take another swallow of soup, the way your shoulders shudder a little with delight, the way you seem to relax. You lick a few spare droplets off your lips, and that cements it- he’s horny. He’s not hard yet, but if he doesn’t think of something else soon, he very well might get there.

There’s no way you’d fuck him. Is there? No, no way. You’re not that kind of girl. You’re a virgin, and you’d turned absolutely red in the face at the mere concept of him seeing you naked.

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . He’s gonna get hard. It’s happening, and you’re still here, in his bed, all domestic and quaint looking, licking your lips more and more. He takes a long swig of soup. “It’s late,” he says, sounding bored and tired.  _ Good _ .

“Yeah.”

“I’m tired.”

“Me, too.”

_ Then fucking leave _ . You stretch, your waist twisting, your breasts rising. He wants to slam you into a wall and rip those fucking clothes off of you. He scowls at the wall. “Maybe you should go.”

“I should,” you say, but you don’t move. You’re still stretching, and there’s a bulge in his pants now- not so large as to be immediately noticeable. For the first time in his entire life, he is thankful for how slowly he gets hard. Your waist twists the other way.

You’d look good riding him, swiveling your hips, your arms above your head, moaning and whimpering and blushing and licking those cute lips.

_ Fuck _ . You need to get the fuck out of here.

He’s never been embarrassed about being hard, being horny, before- but he’d always gotten hard, gotten horny, entirely alone or in the presence of a woman entirely aware of, ready for, and willing to participate in whatever the hell he wanted her to.

You’re different. This is different- and you need to leave. He slowly sets the thermos in his lap, making sure it’s not too hot before suppressing himself with it.

It feels good. He might as well have just stroked himself, still looking at your body as it finally de-contorts itself. Fuck.

“Goodnight,” you say, finally getting to your feet.

“Goodnight,” he responds. He forgets to make it short, rude. You smile at him and he just stares in return- sheepishly, you wander out. He waits until he hears the airlock to let out an audible sigh.

He sets the thermos next to the water on the nightstand. He has several concubines all to himself; he sends them gifts, takes them out, makes a show of them. He used to fuck them all regularly, but it’s been a long time. He could call for one of them, or two of them, or more, and they would come.

He wants to fuck  _ you _ though. It’s a strange thought to fuck someone he blatantly didn’t feel like fucking just because he was horny.

He lays down, pulling himself out of his pants. It’s been a long damn time since he’s masturbated. Maybe he should have just- made a move on you.

But you were his responsibility, his apprentice. Was that a line that was not meant to be crossed? You’re so innocent and inexperienced- and he’d been flustered and chaotic.

No. It’s best he takes care of it on his own. He closes his eyes and tries not to think, to just feel, but he’s a bit too old for that, a bit too alone. He thinks of his concubines, of his fantasies, but it isn’t enough to get him there.

He thinks of you and he eventually explodes in his hand. He lets out a string of oaths as he looks down at the mess- he’d forgotten about that. He dumps his pants into the hamper and grabs a new pair, then returns to bed and sleeps soundly.


End file.
